The Advent Calendar
by smilingsoprano
Summary: LotTL AU, with the Master on the TARDIS. The Doctor tries to celebrate Christmas. The Master becomes obsessed with advent calenders and the Doctor worries he is counting down to something far more ominous than a holiday. Crack, fluff, slash! Gift fic.


**Title: **The Advent Calendar

**Author: **smilingsoprano

**Rating: **K+ . . . for now. Later chapters will get slashier. May even culminate in smut.

**Pairings: **None here, but Doctor/Master later.

**Disclaimer: **None of this belongs to me. If I owned Doctor Who, there would be no plot, only character development, and no one wants that.

**Summary:** LotTL AU, with the Master imprisoned on the TARDIS. The Doctor tries to get the Master to celebrate Christmas. The Master doesn't at all see the point, until he does a little research of his own and becomes obsessed with advent calendars. As he becomes more and more invested in opening each little door in his creation, the Doctor begins to worry it's counting down to something far more ominous than a human holiday.

**A/N: **Part of my Christmas gift for a fellow fangirl and awesome friend. I'm attempting to write (relatively) short, slashy, cracky, fluffy Christmas fics for her favorite pairings (which are also mine, yay!). This will probably be the longest, so it may have a few chapters. I've never written true crack before and fluff doesn't come as easily as angst, so fingers crossed! Not Brit-picked and written by an American, so please forgive errors in slang or general speech. Thanks for reading, and if you have time please review!

* * *

"You're doing what now?"

"Putting up our lights."

The Master narrowed his eyes in confusion and disbelief. "Unless I have suddenly and inexplicably developed the ability to see in the dark, it would seem the TARDIS is sufficiently well-lit, Doctor."

The other Time Lord waved a hand dismissively. Or tried to. Tangled as it was in what looked to be miles of plasticky wiring and tiny, multicolored bulbs, his gesture stopped somewhat short of its intended scope. The movement also pulled him off balance, almost tipping the ladder he perched so precariously on. He righted himself, then turned.

"Not functional lights. Decorative ones. Festive. In the spirit of the season, you know?"

Leaning nonchalantly against the console (and perhaps furtively pushing a few buttons behind his back), the Master stared incredulously. "The season? What season? We're in a time machine, we don't have seasons."

The Doctor leveled a glare at him. "Just because we live in the TARDIS doesn't mean we've been freed from the natural progression of time and causality. There is a 'right now,' and that means it's Christmas in a few weeks. So we're decorating. Also, would you _stop_ messing about with the controls? For the last time, they're isomorphic now! You'll never be able to make any of them work, so _leave off_."

This provoked a frown from the Master. "First, I am deeply wounded you would suspect me of attempting to push your buttons. Second, don't think I don't notice that casual 'we' you keep throwing about. The 'captive and captor' dynamic does little to merit that sickening display of camaraderie. I object."

"Duly noted."

"Third . . . what in Rassilon's name is Christmas?"

For the first time in the conversation, the Doctor's hands, which had been busy with wrapping the ludicrously obsolete wires around the coral struts, stilled. He glanced at the Master, his expressive face registering blank surprise.

"Surely you're joking."

"I don't joke."

"Oh, come now!"

"Well, I _occasionally_ indulge in flippancy."

"That is the most ridiculous lie I have ever heard pass your lips."

The Master growled. "_FINE!_ I joke constantly, eternally, because your biggest fault, Doctor, is that you are a self-righteous, self-pitying arse who has no concept of _fun_, but once in a million years I ask a straightforward question to which I would like to receive an honest answer, and so help me, if you refuse to dignify me with a real response within the next minute, I will rip your spine out through your throat and make a necklace of the vertebrae and I will enjoy _every last second_ because you are an infuriating, arrogant, over-dramatic, smug _bastard_ who can't be bothered to reply seriously to a _single_ inquiry!"

A moment of silence stretched between them as the Doctor widened his eyes in that slightly terrified way that meant the Master had somewhat overstepped his usual antic disposition. "Some might call that an overreaction," he sniped, attempting to brush the outburst aside with sarcasm.

"And after months trapped in this bloody ancient box with you, some might call it justifiable homicide!" The Master took a deep, slightly shaky breath, feeling the muscles in his jaw jump with tension. "I'm going to ask one more time, and if I don't get a straight answer, your next regeneration is going to have a whole lot more scars and crippling phobias. Now. What is Christmas?"

The Doctor grinned. "A human holiday," he replied.

The Master groaned loudly and clutched his head in his hands. "Oh dear _Rassilon_, please don't tell me you even observe the festivals of those pathetic apes."

"What's wrong with that?"

"What's _wrong_? Oh, I don't know, try _everything_." The Doctor pinned him with a hostile gaze and the Master sighed, rolling his eyes. "Fine then. What sort of human holiday?"

A pause, then, the sort that heralded a long explanation. "At the moment, Christmas is nominally a religious holiday, specific to Christianity, but in reality it's brilliantly syncretic. In the Christian religions, it celebrates the birth of the savior, Jesus Christ, to the Virgin Mary. The event is held to have taken place in a manger—"

"Wait wait wait. Hold on for just a moment. Please tell me you meant 'virgin' in the sense of morally pure or nonalcoholic, because otherwise you are making even less sense than usual."

"No, I meant it in the sense of 'never had an intimate relationship.' In the doctrine it is held that Mary conceived miraculously, without a man—well, besides the Christian god, that is, and he doesn't count, really."

The Master simply crossed his arms and hoped his expression conveyed the sheer ridiculousness of that statement. Undeterred, the Doctor continued.

"Anyway, while many humans still celebrate for the Christian religious significance, the ceremonies draw heavily from pagan midwinter celebrations. Traditionally, Christmas includes the hanging of evergreen bows—including a tree, which is decorated with ornaments—creation and consumption of special foods, singing, and the story of Saint Nicholas, more commonly known as Santa Claus."

"Santa Claus."

"Yes, that's right. He is a larger-than-life mythical figure, portrayed as a jolly old man, who is thought—mostly by children, because of their absolutely _brilliant_ imaginations—to travel around the world in his flying sleigh pulled by reindeer, delivering presents to all the good boys and girls. Thus one of the central morals of the holiday is generosity, and humans present each other with gifts."

The Master stared at the Doctor in utter disbelief. "Right. So you're saying that humans lump together their religious traditions in order to celebrate an old man who flies around giving presents?"

"Well, of course when you put it like _that—_"

"How in Rassilon's name does he fly, anyway? I thought humans hadn't gotten to that yet."

The Doctor mumbled an inaudible reply.

"What's that?"

"Um . . . magic."

A narrow-eyed, incredulous look flashed onto the Master's face. "_Magic_? Dear god, they really are primitives. So why does he give presents?"

The broad grin on the Doctor's face told him this would be an answer he enjoyed giving. "To reward good behavior."

"What about the bad children?"

The grin vanished. "Well . . . um, the mythos says he gives them . . . coal."

"Coal? Points for symbolism. Black as their sin and all that. Where does he put these gifts or punishments?"

"In the houses, under the Christmas trees or in stockings. You know . . . like socks, but . . . bigger. And more Christmas-y."

The Master furrowed his brow, turning over the information he had gathered in his mind, searching for the best points of attack. "All right. Let's accept for a moment—a brief moment, mind you—that this ludicrous tale is true. Where does this 'Santa Claus' get these masses of toys?"

"He has a group of elves who make them for him."

Suddenly, the Master burst out laughing. "Well well! A mythical, all-powerful, all-knowing figure who rewards his supporters by breaking into their homes and leaving gifts made by his slaves and cruelly punishes any who don't meet his standards of behavior? I'm beginning to like this holiday."

The Doctor spluttered. "That's . . . that's not how it works at all!" he managed.

"That's certainly how you described it, my dear Doctor."

"Don't _call_ me that! And no, you're spectacularly wrong. Christmas is about the spirit of the season. It's about celebration of family and friends, generosity, kindness, altruism. In Christian theology, it represents redemption, salvation, forgiveness, the beginning of a miracle. In pagan times, this was a festival to welcome back the sun, to find light in the heart of darkness, to seek hope in the most difficult of times. It is about the essential goodness inherent in the human race, and how that may be nurtured. It's brilliant and it's beautiful. Don't you _dare_ ruin this for me."

Slumping his shoulders in mock defeat, the Master sighed. "Fine, fine. We won't discuss 'Santa Claus' anymore." Glancing up, he curled the corners of his mouth into a sly smile. "So, tell me more about this virgin birth thing."

"No! No more." The Doctor jumped down from his ladder. "If you're really interested in the Christian theology, go do some research. The library is extensive, as you would know if you ever set foot in it. Now, I have better things to do than answer your inane questions."

The Master watched him leave, torn between pleasure at the success of his prodding and dread of the period of silence to come. He enjoyed knowing he'd affected the Doctor, but when they weren't talking boredom inevitably followed. And boredom did not mix well with insanity. With an internal shrug, he decided to take the Doctor up on his suggestion and visit the library. At worst, he'd have books to burn. At best, the research might be engaging. And perhaps he could find more ammunition for the next time they fought. The idea appealed to him, and he found himself humming as he left the console room.


End file.
